


Chuck vs. The Rise of the Sandworm

by Skyesurfer12



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:24:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyesurfer12/pseuds/Skyesurfer12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the government was wrong about one thing when it came to Chuck Bartowski?  What if John Casey had to be, well, nice to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chuck vs. The Rise of the Sandworm (Part One)

-x-

“Head or ass, Major?” Sarah asked him, rubbing her temples. “For the last time, just pick one.”

“Shove off, CIA.”

Agent Walker had grabbed the seat across from him at one of the Wienerlicious’ tables, the same joint that was empty apart from the two agents and asset. She was already decked out for the day in her green shirt, pony tail, and an ID badge that resembled a crappy mugshot, proving that even a looker like her was not immune to the corporate badge system. Rather than heed his advice, she leaned forward in her chair, trying to play whose is bigger – despite the lack of one – and took the easy route. “That’s an order, soldier.”

“Um, you know what?” Chuck said before Casey’s glare could incinerate her. “This is really between the two of you. Sounds like spy biz. So maybe now would be a good time for me to be waiting back at the, ah, Buy More?” He had started to say car – maybe his training was kicking in – but the asset and his blonde co-worker had walked over from the store, so there was no vehicle available in which to stash him. Darn. “And Big Mike looked especially angry this morning, so if you don’t mind, I’m just going to –”

“Sit down,” both agents told him in unison without breaking eye contact with each other.

“I guess I’ll be sitting, then,” Chuck sighed. He turned to Casey and scrubbed the back of his neck, something the NSA agent knew he did when he was distinctly uncomfortable. “Casey, do you think it would –”

“Chuck, we’ve covered this before.” Sarah looked tired and apparently annoyed at having to repeat herself. “You’re not helping the cover.”

“Okay. Sorry. I mean ... John, do you mind if I grab a Coke, or are you going to get in trouble with the manager? I don’t think he likes you much.”

Casey rolled his eyes. “I’ll spring for the Coke,” he said, his voice close to the levels of sarcasm the CIA skirt had warned him not to use around the asset. “Happy now, Walker? Wasn’t that good for the cover?”

“Not even close, Major.” Sarah rose from her chair and placed her fingertips on the table, doing her best to loom over him. “Okay, this settles it. Again, I hate to pull rank here, Major, but I’m going to give you one more chance to answer the question. Or I will make the choice for you.” She shot a look over at Chuck before refocusing those ice blue eyes on him. “Head. Or. Rear. Pick one.”

Casey sat up straighter and set down the plastic fork that came complimentary with Lou’s chef salad. The smell of the Wienerlicious German fried hotdogs was beginning to make him sick enough to resort to green roughage. Rabbit food. Now how screwed up and desperate was that?

“Already have to dress like a wiener man eight hours a day,” Casey said sourly, “and now I gotta dress like a penis?”

“Technically, it’s a sandworm,” the kid clarified, looking over from peeling back his straw. “Dune? Shai-Hulud to be exact.”

Knowing that any other response that would earn another evil eye from Walker, Casey merely rolled his eyes again.

“Hear that, Casey?” Sarah repeated, giving a rueful smile. “Shy Hulu.”

“It still looks like a penis,” Casey said. “And it’s Shai-Hulud. Didn’t you read anything growing up, Walker?”

Chuck stopped the icemaker in the middle of filling his cup and swiveled around to study him. “What did you say? How did you know that?”

“I surprise you, Bartowski?”

Chuck exchanged a look with Sarah. “As a matter-of-fact, yes.”

“You know what surprises me? That there’s room for the Intersect with all of the nerd lore stuffed between your ears. Maybe when we find a way to get rid it, we can clean that out of your head, too. Might help you get laid some year.”

“La – wh – oh.” Chuck, backpedaling, wheeled around and put his cup under the ice machine again. “Forget I said anything.”

When Casey angled around in his chair to face his partner, she was wearing that ‘case in point’ look which told him he had fucked up again.

Casey glared right back at her. What the hell did she expect?

This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it. Once the bureaucrats got off their asses and solved the mystery of who had the Intersect – Bryce Larkin sent it to a civilian nerd, of all people – the higher-ups took about two sweeps of the ‘Available Hot Blonde Spooks’ catalogue to conclude that Agent Walker would assume the cover as the asset’s girlfriend. A carefully orchestrated move to keep the kid both close to the vest and compliant if the situation lent itself to intimate persuasion. Hell, everybody did it. Half the Intel in that kid’s noggin was reaped by someone pounding someone else in the sheets and later doing the kiss and tell routine.

But it seems the higher-ups missed one little detail in their meticulous due diligence. By meticulous, Casey meant wholly shitty and half-assed guess work. The usual pattern was turned upside down by the fact the new mark happened to be wired differently. Fuck. It took showing up in Echo Park to score that type of Intel.

Because why did it take that long to find out that the asset was 1) clueless, 2) to be protected at all costs, and 3) oh, yeah, queer as they come.

Way to go, geeks. Woulda been nice to know that tidbit before the blonde was paraded in front of him.

That’s when the op went seriously pear-shaped. Before Casey could say ‘assassin out’ and tag the next in line, the green shirt was torn from his back and he was jammed into a pair of damn short shorts made of leather, tight as hell, and a puffy shirt with laces at the collar.

Walker called the pants lederhosen. Casey called them the reason to drop a round into the CIA costume crew the next time he was at Langley.

That wasn’t all. While he was marveling at how the same crew couldn’t find a get-up that didn’t crawl up his own hotdog buns, he was slapped with a brown-eyed, tufty-headed, crooked-smiled geek of a boyfriend.

Never, ever, did he think he’d have one of those.

So now, overnight, the clientele at the hotdog stand morphed from skateboarding hippy punks to yoga- pant-wearing soccer moms swinging through the doors, craving his non-organic, non-vegan wiener. Casey vowed that one day, soon, he would drag that kid over to the hotdog shop during the lunch rush and lay the filthiest, most obscene kiss on him that he could in a public place just to get some of those broads to back off.

When he grumbled out his suggestion to Walker, she only put that know-it-all look on her face and chuckled. Big help there, CIA.

“You’re stalling, Major,” Sarah pointed out, all pragmatism as she woke him from his thoughts. “Not exactly a trait I expected after hearing the tales of the great John Casey, but maybe that’s what they were, tales.”

“Goading me, Walker?” Casey stabbed at the salad. “Funny, but that fits exactly into the profile I read in your files. How many times did you goad Larkin in Ankara? Or was it Bolivia? Easy to lose track, isn’t it?”

“Know what,” Chuck said, eyes darting from his blonde bodyguard to his cover boyfriend, “I am really slammed back at the Herder desk, so I should probably mosey back there and see what Big Mike –”

“Chuck, stay.” Sarah said it with enough authority in her tone to get him to halt, no matter how glumly he watched the freedom beyond the glass doors. “We’re not done here yet. Are we, Major Casey?”

Casey grunted and wondered if his boyfriend could spill anymore of that drink on the floor. Kid was jittery for some reason, and Casey had an inkling he was about to find out why. “Hotdog stand opens in ten, Walker. Spit it out.”

“Fine, though I think you’d be more suited for the ass, I’m giving you a choice. Which do you want?”

Casey spoke around a piece of cucumber. “I already told the kid no. Why can’t you just drop it, CIA?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chuck attempt to shuffle closer to the door. “Sorry, Ca - John, I screwed up.”

Casey turned to his nifty little government boy toy. “Something tells me you’re not talking about the Laszlo situation, Bartowski.” Cheap shot, but he had to get that little dig in after last night’s James Bond fiasco in the home theater. “Did you decide to take another whack job out to dinner and a movie?”

“Well, it’s not that, it’s Morgan.” Chuck cleared his throat. “I was going to let it go, really. But he wasn’t as forgiving. He asked a lot of questions.”

Sarah folded her arms over her green shirt, looking awfully damn pompous for someone in pleated khakis. “Go on. Tell him the rest. Or I will.”

Chuck gave her a look to let her know she wasn’t helping. “It’s the cover.”

“The cover?” Casey asked. “What about it?”

“So you see,” the kid began, doing that nervous gesture with his fingers, “when Morgan told me he couldn’t assume his typical role of tail end of the sandworm this year, he wondered why ... you couldn’t do it.”

“Answer me this: what does that little troll have going on in his life, anyway? Why can’t he be the ass? He does it pretty well every other day, doesn’t he?

“It’s his cousin’s quinceanera. A very big event in his culture, and he can’t get out of it.” Chuck thought about it. “And he’s not an ass. He just gets excited over ‘mystery crisper.’”

“Yeah. Way to argue your point.” Casey shook his head and rose from his chair. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me. Just find another costume. Or another nerd, which in your case, should be easier. Got a whole store of ‘em, don’t you? Now, if you two don’t mind, these napkin dispensers don’t fill themselves.”

“Sit down, Major,” Sarah ordered. “We’re not done yet.”

Casey slowly rounded on her, purposely defying her by remaining standing. “What is it, Agent?”

“Ah, this is where I feel as if I owe you an apology, Casey,” Chuck said, and the way he glanced at Sarah told Casey she was the instigator. “But when Morgan grabbed me in the breakroom, well, I had no idea she was listening.”

“You had no idea your spy handler – who works with you in order to keep tabs on your skinny ass – would be lurking around? Listening to everything you say?”

Right then, Chuck gave him a significant, wounded look, and Casey immediately wiped the sarcastic expression from his face. It seemed his response probably didn’t fall within the confusing-as-hell boundaries Walker seemed to set on how boyfriends should speak to one another.

“Casey.” Sarah rubbed hard at the back of her neck and cast her eyes at the ceiling. “Maybe you should hear what Chuck has to say.”

Chuck slowly poked the straw in and out of the drink, dithering. “It’s, ah, just that Morgan thinks if my boyfriend won’t share a costume with me, there’s probably ... well ...” and the kid reluctantly brought up his fingers to make air quotes and said, “’deeper relationship issues’ that we should discuss ... with or without him as the, um, mediator.”

“Does he know I can kill him with a paper clip?”

“O-kay ....” Chuck paused, taking a long slurp from the drink, not daring to look at Casey. “I tried to tell Morgan it was fine. Honestly, I did. But I’m just a little new at all of this spy stuff, guys.” He took a deep breath. “Not to mention I’m still adapting to having a cover boyfriend. Especially a well-armed one that grunts as much as this one does.”

“Hear that, Casey?” Sarah asked, slapping a package of napkins in his hand. “Your cover work here – well, for lack of a better term – has a stench about it.”

“That’s the fried wieners you’re sniffing, Walker,” Casey said as he stuffed a stack of napkins into the holder a little too roughly. “Are we done here, Agent?”

Sarah glanced at Chuck before she crossed her arms, transferred her gaze to Casey. “Chuck, maybe you were on to something.”

“I was?”

“Yes. Can I have a few moments with your boyfriend? Alone?”

“Oh, thank God,” Chuck said, pushing a hand through his hair, looking weary. “Though, should I be worried that my mom and fake significant other want me to leave the room?”

“Yes, but just don’t go far,” Sarah said, jerking her thumb at the window. “Sit at the umbrella table where we can watch you.”

“Watch me? Wow. Thanks for making me feel eight.”

“Wait.” When Casey put a hand on Chuck’s arm, turning the kid to face him, the drink nearly went flying. “Here. Take a napkin,” he ordered, slapping a few into his chest. “You’re spilling all over the damn place.”

“Correction. Four years old.” Chuck’s eyes cut over both handlers and he raised his hand. “You know, once upon a time, I was perfectly capable of walking across a parking lot without being held at gunpoint by a genius lunatic who escaped from his bunker.”

“Yeah, and once upon a time, I had dungarees that went past my knees.” Casey, hearing his voice dripping with the forbidden ‘cover boyfriend’ sarcasm, decided to shovel a bit at Walker while he was at it. “You heard the boss. Stay put where we can see you.”

“Well, I was going to ask if you’re still pissed over the Laszlo thing. You really don’t trust me not to get into trouble after last night, do you?

“No,” the agents said together and narrowed their eyes at each other. Great, Casey thought. The only thing they did agree on, at least.

“Guess I’ll go have my Coke. Outside.” Chuck deliberately gave Casey the stink-eye. “Without spilling.”

“Oh, and Chuck?” Sarah said, halting him. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Practice your interview, okay? I don’t plan on working for Harold Tiberius Tang tomorrow.”

“Sure, thing. But then, you do realize, I’ll be your boss?”

Casey grinned as he picked up a half empty ketchup bottle to be filled. “Oh what a web we weave, Walker,” he said, not hiding his glee. “Get the kid on one more stake-out where he almost gets tossed out a window, and you’ll be on the diaper duty station until Easter.”

Chuck flashed a smile, the shy one Casey hadn’t quite deciphered yet, and pushed out the doorway. For some reason, the kid had pointed it at him.

“Better,” Sarah said when the asset was out of earshot.

“Better?” Casey squeezed the bottle over another half empty one to combine them, pausing as it made an unholy fart-like noise. He only hoped she got the point. “You have something you need to discuss in private, Walker?”

“Did you notice your asset? What happened just then?” Amused, she handed him the next bottle. “That was a tiny first step on the long road to being a rock-solid boyfriend. Something to aspire to, huh, Major?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You showed a bit of solidarity with Chuck – even if it was to team up against me.” Sarah looked inquisitively at him, one eyebrow raised. “That’s not what we need to discuss, though. I know you resent the fact your lead agent status on this mission was revoked when your role here was ... altered.”

“Only thing I resent are these damn knee-high socks,” Casey muttered. “Mustard.”

Sarah reached over the table and spanked the bottle into his hand. “But I think it’s time you and I laid it on the line. Mind if I shoot from the hip?” She scanned the umbrella table, where Chuck appeared to be dabbing his one nice interview tie with a napkin. “Off the record?”

Casey started to unload the mustard into another container, but this could be worth hearing, he decided. He looked over at her, shrugged. “Shoot, Walker. What do you got?”

“Do you really want to blow this, Major?”

“What are you asking, Agent Walker? Is that the only way to keep this assignment happy?”

Sarah gave him a dirty look. “You know what I mean. Mission failure.”

Casey answered that with a healthy squirt.

“Then listen to me,” Sarah replied, “if you don’t pull your head out and get the asset ... well, compliant and trusting, Beckman is going to yank your chute and find someone who can. Which ... is too risky and well, too bad, really ....”

“Too bad? Hand me the relish.”

“He likes you,” she said, giving him the bottle.

“Are we talking about that same nerd out there?” Casey scoffed. “Kid hates my guts. I’m his worst nightmare. I don’t play games, I don’t like Chinese food, and I hate ... talking.”

Sarah grabbed one of his suspenders to get him to turn, ignoring the death glare aimed at her hand. “Chuck appreciates that you don’t play real life games, you do like pizza, and you’re a good listener.”

“Good listener? I’m in fucking Daisy Dukes, Walker. Haven’t I already lost my man parts?”

“Technically, they’re longer than Daisy Dukes,” Sarah corrected. She bit her lip over a smile, her eyes traveling appreciatively down his mile long exposed legs, and poked his thigh two inches southwest of where the boys hung out. “That would be about here.”

“Your hand is awfully close to my sexual harassment fly zone, Walker.”

“So sue me. In fact, I dare you, John Casey, to file a complaint.”

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?” Casey pointed his chin towards the condiment station. “Fill the pickle spear vat while you’re over there.”

“And you keep trying to pretend that you’re not paying attention to him,” she said, getting the enormous pickle jar down from a shelf, “but we both know behind that stony appearance, you hear everything.”

“That’s my job,” Casey said. “Give me the chopped onions, will you? Fridge behind the counter.”

“Oh, sure.” She pulled the container out and slid it over to him while something else caught her eye. “Who puts horseradish on a hotdog?”

“Someone who wants to find my SIG in their face,” Casey explained, dishing out the onions.

Sarah marked his body language, gauging his seriousness. When he just shrugged, she frowned and went on, “I’m just trying to understand what the problem is with you.”

“Problem?”

“Look at him.” Sarah motioned towards the outdoor table. The asset, apparently trying to read lips, quickly made himself look busy by taking another slurp from his gratis Coke. “He’s charming, he’s funny, he’s handsome –”

“He’s gay,” Casey tacked on to the same list. “I’m not.”

Sarah waved a hand, dismissing what was undeniably just a tiny hurdle in her book. “You didn’t contradict the other characteristics. Interesting.”

Casey broke open a box of straws. Irritating that a dozen or so landed on the floor. When he glanced over, Walker had that eyebrow pointed at him again. “Come on, Walker. You’ve met the kid.” Despite all his digging to find faults with someone he categorized as a typical civilian idiot, Casey had to admit to himself that this one threw him off. In the end, he could add smart, loyal to his country, tenacious –

“You’re spilling.”

“What?”

Sarah nodded down to the sauerkraut vat that he didn’t remember grabbing. “That’s probably enough.”

“Shit.”

“Napkin.”

Casey took it from her and went silent for a moment, mopping it up. “This doesn’t seem like a problem to you, huh?”

“Because of Chuck?” Sarah’s fingers tapped on the prep counter. She seemed to be weighing her words before she looked over just to squint at him. “Come on, Major. We’ve all been asked to ... step out of our comfort zone in the name of national security at some point in our careers. Including you.”

Casey slanted her a hard look as he finished topping off the sauerkraut bowls. Her statement did confirm one question to a degree. The CIA spooks could still crawl deep into cement-sealed records when it came to something as precious as the Human Intersect.

The details of that mission barely flitted through his mind. A Russian mobster. A sixty-foot yacht docked at the pier in Marseille. Giving it to him up the ass and later between the eyes.

“Redacted, Walker. You sure you want to elaborate?”

“No, but at least we’re on the same wavelength now, that’s all.”

“Mind speeding this up, CIA.” Casey’s glare tapered off to a grunt. “Don’t wanna disappoint the customers. It’s almost Wiener O’Clock.

Sarah, who’d stolen a pickle, almost sent it down the wrong pipe. She coughed and thumped her chest. “Okay. Bottom line, Major? You’re being watched, and if Beckman decides you can’t do this, she’s going to pull you off the assignment.”

“Will that break your heart?”

It surprised him that she didn’t come back with the acidic retort. “This is serious,” Sarah finally said. “Two reasons I don’t want that to happen. One, your reputation aside,” and she shifted her shoulders, uneasy now, “you’re the best damn partner I’ve ever had. Two, bringing in someone else at this point puts Chuck in danger, and I’m not willing to do that. Besides, he does ... like you.”

Casey pinned her with a skeptical look before striding over to the cash register. “Bullshit,” he muttered, giving just a quick scan to the asset. “That kid doesn’t like me. And since when did we revert back to middle school? If anything, he thinks I’m the playground bully. The nerd is terrified of me.”

“I’ll give you that much. You’re not exactly the cuddly type.” She opened the freezer, took out a bag of frozen dogs, and turned around to study him. “But he is ... interested.”

“Are we really having this conversation, Walker? Because nothing you can say is going to make me –”

“Good point.” Fishing her phone out of her back pocket, Sarah drew her thumb across the touchscreen and tapped out a few commands. When she found what she was looking for, the blonde hesitated before warning, “You can’t tell Chuck I recorded this, or worse yet, played it back for you. He’d be mortified.”

“Play what?”

He followed her glance out to the al fresco dining table. Chuck had his face stuck in his phone, apparently giving up on lip reading for the time being. “A little conversation between two friends in the stock room,” Sarah answered. She tapped the screen and turned up the volume on the playback of a surveillance audio feed, carefully watching Casey’s expression.

“How can you say that with a straight face?” came a voice from the recording that made Casey’s fingers clench into strangle-mode.

“Newsflash. We’re in the Large Mart Plaza, not a stud farm.” Chuck’s voice. “Just because someone is good-looking and meets the thoroughbred criteria doesn’t mean we’re going to roll in the hay.”

Casey let out a disgusted groan and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Honest to God, Walker, if –”

“Shh! Listen.”

“So you do think he’s hot.” Great. Now it was the troll poking and prying.

“Oh, c’mon, buddy.” There was a pause where Casey could picture Chuck giving his friend a look. “I am alive and breathing.”

“It’s a fair point,” Morgan said, “and since you seem to be dating exclusively now, it’s only fair to ask. I mean, I’m not gay, but have you seen his backside in those short and oh-so-tight leather pants? Dude! When he bends down for the fry tray, it’s like two little soccer balls are going to war in there! Fighting and clawing for more fabric – hey, and as boyfriend, you have every right just to walk up and palm it. Just like that.”

“Ow! Would you stop that? Here, take the box if you need something else to do with your hands.”

Casey glowered over at his partner and discreetly tugged at the stubborn back hem, mid-thigh. Damn these britches straight to the pit of hell where they came from.

“Need a little help there, Casey?” Sarah asked, a grin momentarily exploding on her face. “You can always call your boyfriend over, since he seems to like them.”

“Go to hell, CIA.”

“– ever wondered about that?” Casey’s jaw tightened when he heard Morgan again. “I mean, it’s an honest question: where do you think the puffiness of the shirt stops and the muscles begin?”

“I wouldn’t mind finding out.” A mumble from a voice that sounded suspiciously like their nerdy asset.

Casey went back to pinching the bridge of his nose, but not before he quickly smoothed the shirt down where the leather cross bridge over his upper chest made it bunch up a bit funny.

“What’s the matter, Major?” Sarah asked. Even though he didn’t look over, Casey could hear the smug smile. “At least you’re attracting his attention. I had to wear that get-up for three days before we figured out we had wrapped up the wrong piece of hotdog in a bun.”

“God, I hate you so much right now, Walker.”

“Shh.” She waggled the phone.

“– being honest and all, Morgan? There’s one thing you’re forgetting.”

“What? Tell Dr. Morgan.”

After a few seconds, they could hear Chuck heave a breath. When he spoke, his voice was lower, more serious. “I ... I don’t think he’s really into me.”

Casey went still, but that was the end of it. Sarah raised her hand dramatically and thumbed off the audio. “And there you have it,” she said. “Evidence of the worst cover boyfriend shtick to ever come out of Fort Meade.” Cleaning up, she tossed a box of lids behind the counter and put her hands on her hips. “Funny, too, because the story of John Casey’s legendary abilities was one of the reasons I agreed to come to Burbank. But maybe that’s what they are. Just a legendary crock, that is.”

“What the hell do you expect me to do?” Casey immediately wanted to cringe. He usually didn’t make such a blatant mistake as asking her opinion, which only proved the lederhosen was cutting off circulation to more than one vital organ.

Just as he suspected, Sarah, helping herself to a bottle of water, did a spit-take at the question. “What – what do I expect you to do?”

Shit. Here it comes.

“You heard your asset.” Sarah’s voice went sharp now. “I expect you to get your ass out there, Major, and get to work on him. Get him to realize that you do like him! Flirt with him! Seduce him!”

“He’s sitting right out there,” Casey growled. “Keep your voice down.”

“I don’t care if you have to strut through the apartment courtyard tonight,” she rolled on, obviously not listening, “wearing only your Alpine hat and those boots. Give him a striptease for all I care. Just. Fix. The. Damn. Cover.”

“That’s not gonna help,” Casey said, punching his password into the cash register. “You heard the asset. What’s under the knickers isn’t the problem, sister.”

“What ....” Now Sarah did push her hair back from her forehead, staring blankly ahead. “Of all times .... I can’t believe I’m going to say this. You’re right.”

“See? Now pass me the register key so I can –”

“Why didn’t I see it?” Sarah continued, almost talking to herself. “You have to ... charm him.”

“Eh?”

“You know, charm? Smile? Have an actual conversation about his interests, be funny – oh, my God, we’re doomed.”

Casey put down the tip jar and, slowly, he lifted his head. “Doomed?” he repeated. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Sarah tilted her head at him, belatedly recognizing that not only had she thrown down a gauntlet, but her partner had picked it up. “Do you have any idea what it means to charm someone like Chuck Bartowski? Or, hell, anyone? Let’s start with the more basic question, John. Have you ever charmed anyone in your whole freaking existence while stomping through life and crushing the world under your feet?”

Now thoroughly pissed at the slam on his abilities, Casey crossed his arms over his shirt and stalked around the counter. “You implying something?”

“Implying?” Sarah laughed without humor and threw her hands up. “No, I pretty much just came out and said it there. Because honestly, Major, I can’t picture you captivating, seducing, or otherwise using any other charismatic skillset in your vast toolbox to charm your way out of a foxhole, let alone that man sitting out there ... trying to eavesdrop on us when he thinks we’re not watching him.”

They wheeled around in unison to give Chuck a ‘bad puppy’ look.

Seeing that he was in their sights, he blinked, smoothed his tie, and waved lamely. When that had little effect, he held up his wrist, pointed to his watch, and flashed five fingers.

“Great,” Sarah said. “Five minutes before I have to sell toasters.”

“And I’ve got my wieners to fry,” Casey tacked on.

Sarah pushed the ketchup bottles towards him and stayed quiet for a minute. “Okay, I meant what I said, though. We have a problem.”

“You don’t think I can sweep the Intersect off his feet?”

“First step might be not to call him that. Just a suggestion, Casey.”

“Heh.” It took everything not to grab the front of the lederhosen and tell her what she could go charm. “Get over yourself, Walker. You’re not the only one who knows how to be the honey trap when duty calls. If I need to seduce the nerd into following orders, hold his hand, or make him into the docile little asset we need for this little experiment to work, I can do it.” He added under his breath, “Whatever it takes to be on the team that has access to the Intersect.”

That was the most honest he had been to her, but who wouldn’t want to have that kind of Intel just waiting to break out? Silver platter. Giving him the open shot to take down a wide assortment of informants, double agents, terrorists, or any other kind extremist scum. This was the payout for all the years he spent in training, or in some godforsaken jungle or cave. Just the thought of it made him drool.

No way would he give that up. He could flash his pearly whites, nod at the appropriate time in the context of sandwich portability, hold a game controller, and hell. Even flirt when it came down to it.

Granted, the last part made him slightly uncomfortable, because Chuck was Chuck and would want to dissect the meaning behind every time their hands might accidently brush, or any ‘cover’ show of affection. Maybe a kiss ... if it came down to that.

One part of his mind vaguely wondered if the kid would be a good kisser.

The soldier in him gave it a very butch bitch slap before it could wander any further.

“Good,” Sarah said, holding his gaze a little longer than necessary, those blue eyes making their point. “Then get out there and do what you have to do. Work harder at it, Major. Charm him. Just don’t screw it up.”

-x-

According to the chatter on the surveillance, Ellie’s annual Halloween party in the courtyard started at eight o’clock, but Casey pegged her as one of those samurai hosts who had every candle lit and appetizer platter in place by seven forty-five, no matter how late revelers would actually begin to creep in. He was right about that, and once she went back inside for ice, he rewarded himself with a stuffed mushroom cap for his efforts, one that was damn tasty.

Wiping his mouth with a Frankenstein paper napkin he poached next, Casey lurked by the fountain for a minute, watching a DJ set up, before crossing over to the kid’s bedroom window. The courtyard was decorated with orange string lights and carved pumpkins. There was even a small metal fire pit that someone had dragged in and placed in a corner with a few Adirondack chairs around it. Most likely illegal as hell, Casey figured, since the entire state seemed like a tinderbox ready to spark, but it did give the place an outdoorsy, fall-like feel. For that, he was willing to let it slide, though he did make a mental note to keep an eye on it.

One way to think of it was this: if the Halloween party and his own charm couldn’t get the kid to relax for a while, at least he’d get some decent food and beer out of the night.

“Hey ... John,” Ellie said, suddenly appearing at his side holding a tray of mini eggrolls. “Are you ... looking for Chuck?”

Casey put on the ‘I’m safe to date your baby brother’ smile. Smooth, yet tentative. “Yeah, he’s around, isn’t he?”

“In his room.” She tipped her head in the direction of his window, not shifting her eyes from him.

“Need me to put these out somewhere?” Casey asked, already taking the tray from her. Skimming her costume, he wondered how many heart attacks she would cause tonight with an outfit that was pretty much a few strategically placed fig leaves. For one, her little brother, who was a bit too modest for his own good.

“Sweet of you to offer,” Ellie said. With her hands free now, she pointed at a table next to the fountain. “Over there?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks – oh, Devon,” Ellie called out, something catching her eye past Casey’s shoulder. “The cobwebs don’t go there.” She turned to Casey and smiled. “Sorry, duty calls, John. Thanks, again.”

With a final little wave, she scurried off to help Devon.

“God, I only hope they don’t have matching costumes,” Casey said under his breath. Once he set the tray down, he snatched an eggroll for his payment and headed towards the kid’s window. The bedroom’s blinds were half closed, but he already knew Chuck was in there, not a movement or peep out of him since they had left the pier.

Figuring he had stalled long enough, Casey tentatively raised his hand and knocked on the window, waited for the kid to answer. It was quiet, though, and a moment or so passed before he parted the blind a crack and peered inside.

His asset – boyfriend – lay stretched out on top of the covers, sound asleep. At some point, he had changed out of his interview clothes and was now wearing the typical ‘nerd off shift’ outfit of jeans and a long-sleeved brown t-shirt.

“Chuck?” Casey said, careful to keep his voice down. The last thing he needed was the nosy sister barging in. “You awake?”

Even though he knocked again, the Intersect wasn’t budging. Shrugging to himself, Casey pulled the window open and climbed inside. He had already warned Chuck a dozen times about keeping his window secured, but the kid had simply informed him that that was why he had an assassin for a fake boyfriend living thirty feet away.

Snarky little shit when he wanted to be.

Reaching behind him to close the window, Casey didn’t speak at first, instead taking a few seconds to study his asset without getting the puzzling looks shot back at him for doing it. Twilight had darkened the room, yet if he got close enough, he could make out every clean-shaven feature on his face. The kid looked exhausted, even sound asleep.

Casey squinted. It would be a few years before Chuck would grow into ... well – he was only going to think this once – but handsomeness was the word Casey would use. Right now, there was too much boyishness, the smooth lines of his face vying against dark eyes, large to balance his straight nose. The hair, though. No one should’ve been born with a mop like that unless they knew what the hell to do with it. As a result, it was longer than it should be, an unruly, holy mess of brown curls ... but somehow, all of it put together with a gangly, clumsy body seemed to work.

Jesus Christ. One month in California, and he was already losing it.

Casey shook his head at himself, and as he did, Chuck stirred. The last thing the agent wanted was for the kid to wake up and find himself being scrutinized, so Casey took that as his signal to speak up.

“Nerd.”

“Hm?” Dark lashes fluttered before his eyes blew wide. “Gah!” The kid whirled an arm out and came up with a pillow, ready to launch.

Casey gave him a bored stare. “Might wanna rethink your weapon of choice, Intersect. If I were a double agent, you’d be in the trunk of my car by now.”

“Hello to you, too,” Chuck said, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes. He tossed the pillow to the side and sat up on his elbows. “How – how long have you been there?”

“Just walked in.”

“Oh.” Chuck’s gaze moved up and down, taking in all of him. Casey had changed into a black polo and jeans for the party, nothing special, and nothing meriting that level of inspection. “What time is it?”

“Your sister is putting out appetizers and drinks. I expect a flock of doctors and nurses dressed up as whatever entitled, upper class meatheads are wearing this year to be wandering in pretty soon.”

Chuck was still eyeing him warily. “Wow. That late, huh? Oh, hey – did I miss a briefing or something?”

“Nah, just thought I’d ... come in,” Casey said. “That okay?”

“Nothing has stopped you before.” Chuck, noticing a game controller on the bed next to him, picked it up and began twisting it in his fingers. “Is this spy business or boyfriend business? Oh, wait. My bad. I guess they’re the same.”

There went his smooth entrance, straight into the shitter. “Thought you’d be getting ready for the party,” Casey said, moving away from the window.

“Almost blowing up the Santa Monica pier, along with hundreds of people, kind of puts a damper on the spirit of things.” Lifting a hand, the kid held it out, palm flat. “Hey, at least I’m not shaking as badly anymore, so yay me.”

Casey let out a sigh at the loser routine. “You ... did good work out there, Bart – Chuck. Did your job. You flashed, figured out where Laszlo was, and then some.”

“I armed a bomb.”

“It was an accident.”

“I almost cut the wrong wire,” Chuck said, grimacing as he recalled the harrowing experience fresh in their minds.

“But you didn’t. You diffused it. Though I did wanna tie your ass in a knot for ignoring orders.”

“The impending violence in your voice message tipped me off, but thanks.” Chuck couldn’t repress a flinch. “Laszlo told me I should trust my handlers precisely as much as you trust me. But I ... trusted the wrong person. He built a bomb, Casey. I’m an idiot.”

Casey ran a hand through his hair and strolled over to the kid’s computer desk. “You got me there, I guess. You did trust the wrong person.” Facing him, he leaned a hip against the desk. “Do you trust me?”

Chuck felt the need to look down at his bare feet. “Sometimes ....”

It was an honest answer, and not risky. Casey had to respect that. “Never did tell me how you found the bugs.”

“Laszlo,” Chuck said. “I’m sure there are more that I didn’t find. If my opinion means anything, you guys are jerks for prying into my most intimate moments.”

Casey lifted a shoulder. “Harsh reality, kid, but your lofty opinion means diddly squat when it comes to the Intersect’s safety. Besides, intimate? You’re nearly a virgin, Bartowski.”

“Hilarious. I’m sure you’ve done enough snooping in my background to know all about James. Freshman year? Bryce introduced us?” Chuck bit his lip. “What did the General have to say?”

An earful, but none of it being subject matter the kid was ready to hear. She might’ve used the terms ‘Intersect bunker,’ ‘sloppy work,’ and ‘new outpost in the Ozarks’ while flames shot out of her eyes. “You saved hundreds of lives from a genius lunatic. What do you think she said?”

Chuck tucked a hand under his head and pursed his lips, not convinced. Smart. “Speaking of people who have a right to be angry with me, have you broken the other news to Sarah?”

“What news?”

“You too, huh?” Chuck stretched his legs restlessly and glanced at the clock. “I should let you know. There’s going to be a new sheriff in town tomorrow. Looks like Sarah and I will be bowing and scraping to the taste of Tang.”

“Ah, hell,” Casey said, picturing what a bitch on wheels Walker would be when she got the news.

“Sorry – but I was busy saving the world.”

“I could kill him for the right price,” Casey offered up, feeling the weight of his SIG shoved in his waistband. He was already relishing the way it would go down. Loading dock. Closing time. Make it look like a robbery.

Chuck’s brows lowered. “Uh, really nice, Casey, and thanks for the proposal and all, but I think in the real world we just make his life miserable while still operating within the parameters of Buy More employment. Oh, and normal human beings.”

“Darn.” Hoping that would’ve aired out the wet blanket, Casey did what his training told him to do and smiled.

Chuck opened his mouth to say something else, did a double-take at the smile, and almost let the controller slip out of his hand. “Was there ... anything else the government needed from me tonight? Any other maniacs to get back in their pen? Because, honestly, I’m whipped.”

Casey pushed off from the desk. “Don’t see the moron here. He wasn’t able to get out of his family’s gig, eh?”

“No, but he did drop off the costume,” Chuck said, his eyes diverting towards the closet. “Good news. Last year’s salsa spill came out. Bad news. No one’s going to notice.”

“Got a back-up plan?” Casey, fed up with watching him spin the controller, snatched it out of his hands and set it down on the dresser. “Another costume?”

Chuck tucked both hands under the pillow, scowling now that Casey had taken away his toy. “You’re looking at it.”

“’Nerd striking a reclining pose in bed while playing video games.’” Casey considered it, nodded. “Original, Bartowski. That ought to scare the hell out of anyone who has a social life, at least.”

Chuck attempted to look offended, but when Casey’s teasing eyes traveled down the long sprawl of his asset, the kid couldn’t help it; he smiled. “I had the costume already. Seemed like a no-brainer.”

The smile said that the little parlay could be considered progress. Afterburners ignite. Now that he had pushed aside the indecision, Casey felt the next step would be to sit down. Surveying the airstrip, he saw that besides the desk chair where Chuck had dumped his tie, dress shirt, and slacks, there was no other place to grab a seat.

“Oh, sorry, I just left the clothes there,” Chuck said hurriedly. Because he stood so close to the bed, Casey heard it – just the slightest hesitation and awkwardness in the kid’s breath. “Um, do you want to sit down?”

“Yeah, why not.” As Casey reached for the pants, not knowing where he would put them, something caught his eye. He swung his head towards the bed and nearly dropped the balled-up clothes.

The asset, the tousle-headed, brown-eyed Human Intersect, had slid his hand over the top cover and was patting the bed next to his thigh. The kid realized too late that Casey was picking up clothes, and flushed bright red. “Ah – that’s okay, too.” Chuck glimpsed down at the wad in Casey’s fist and slipped his hand back to his side. “If you want to move all that stuff.”

Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe Casey was getting a little rusty in the seduction department.

“Nah. Where would I put them?” Casey asked, un-balling the shirt so at least the wrinkles wouldn’t be as obvious. “Besides, hanging up your clothes isn’t in the job description.”

Without turning around, Casey felt the air in the room get chillier. Job description? Christ. If only he could suck the words back into his mouth. He really had let his skills get dull.

“Wouldn’t want to ask you to do that,” Chuck mumbled. “Everything about you is by the book, isn’t it?”

“Move over.”

Looking vaguely like a small animal caught in the headlights, Chuck tipped his head to look up at him. “Move ... what?”

“You wanted me to sit there a second ago, didn’t you?” Casey asked.

“Yes, but I thought – well, you seemed as if you didn’t –”

“So scoot.”

Thanks to that blunder, Casey wasn’t sure if the kid would make room or not. But after staring up at him for an eternity, looking boggled, Chuck finally picked up his remote control lying next to him, and moved his hips. “Okay, then. Have a seat.”

The instant the offer was out there, Casey eased down and slid over next to him, though he purposely sat up while the kid stayed in a deeper recline. It put Chuck’s head a good foot lower than Casey’s, and the agent preferred it that way. Less of those brown eyes peeling his skin back, the better.

“It’s my job to watch over you. Why is that so hard to understand, Bartowski?”

“It’s the other part of your job I happen to have a bit of trouble processing,” Chuck admitted.

“Being your boyfriend.”

“Being my cover boyfriend.” Chuck put both hands on his stomach and crossed his ankles, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. “Did ... Sarah talk to you?”

“No.”

Chuck tilted his head, searching Casey’s face. Whatever he saw made him lift a brow. “Really.”

And there it was. Having an intuitive, nerdy, cover boyfriend could be a real pain in the ass.

“Yes, she talked to me,” Casey grumbled. “You didn’t hear us, did you?”

“No, but Sarah didn’t look very happy. And she hasn’t even heard yet that she’s going to be Tang’s new minion.” He shook his head and said under his breath, “Geez, I don’t believe this. Job interviews and missions are the only thing I’m screwing, even with a new boyfriend who lives right next door. Thanks a lot, government.”

Casey choked on a snort. “Want to rephrase that, Bartowski?”

“Oh, sorry.” Chuck looked down, avoiding his eyes. “It’s just something Ellie – well, never mind. What did Sarah want to talk about in private?”

“None of your business.”

Chuck wrinkled his nose. “So it was about me, of course.”

“No, but FOX news had a documentary on the Nixon years last night, so we debated whether the Watergate hearings were a subterfuge to get the commies a foothold in the White House.”

“Sooooo ....”

“Yes, it was about you.”

“Thank you.” The kid’s body stiffened, something Casey knew for certain now that one side was pressed along his. “How hard was that?”

“Mind moving over a little?” Casey nudged him with an elbow. He was surprised the kid wasn’t as scrawny as the agent thought he would be. Definitely some muscle definition under the geek’s shirt. “Half my ass is hanging off.”

“What? Oh, right.” Chuck shifted over towards the center of the bed, but strangely, not enough to keep their bodies from touching along Casey’s left side. “Hey ... ah, would you mind doing me a favor?”

Casey hesitated. “What is it?”

“I presume Ellie knows we’re in here?” Chuck began to fidget with his thumb.

“She saw me in the courtyard, so yeah. Why?”

“Wellll ... you see, she thinks I’m ... ah, maybe ... finally getting lucky in here,” Chuck stammered. “Would you mind hanging around for forty-two minutes and fifteen seconds?”

Casey squinted at him. “Why?”

“Um, that’s the length of Arcade Fire, and it’s kinda an auditory aphrodisiac ....” Chuck cleared his throat. “You know what? Forget I said anything. You are really not ready for that.”

“Forty-two minutes? Just getting a quicky, huh?”

“That’s ... qu-quick?” Curious, Chuck angled his head at him. His eyes traveled up, down, and finally froze just at center – before he remembered what he was looking at. “Oh, God. Really, I said forget it.”

“There’s no way she’s going to believe it, anyway,” Casey said.

“Why?”

“If you were in here getting lucky with me, you wouldn’t be able to wipe the goofy grin off your face for a week.” Casey flicked a deadpan look. “And you’d be knocking over furniture trying to walk in a straight line.”

“Aren’t you sure of yourself?” Chuck turned his head to the side. Practically every inch of flesh on his neck became red. “Can we change the subject now?”

Casey grinned over the top of Chuck’s head. “If you like.”

“Be honest. What did Sarah say?”

Casey straightened his back and adjusted the pillow behind him. The move jostled Chuck a little, but he still didn’t attempt to give him more room. Maybe the kid was just tired, or maybe feeling a warm body next to his after five years was worth being scared at the same time. Whatever it was, Casey figured the heat wasn’t a bad thing, so he just settled against him on that side, arms, shoulders, and hips touching.

Now that he had breached some sort of invisible barrier, Casey sensed something else. He was an excellent spy, good at diverting or escaping when he needed to. But the kid was not going to take the usual bullshit response, and perhaps it was time to not even try it. He decided to be honest.

“The cover’s fucked up.”

It was obvious Chuck was searching his blank mind for anything to say to that. Finally, “I know.”

“And we have to do something about it,” Casey said.

“We do?” Chuck’s first reaction was to wet his lips, something Casey attributed to nerves yet found amusing anyway.

“Yeah, we do.”

“Oh, God. This is my fault.” Chuck put his hand on his forehead. “I – I don’t think I can do this. Maybe you spies can see the world in black and white, but for me? The whole cover thing is too ... too complicated. It gets blurry around the edges, and I don’t think ....” The kid glanced over, bewildered and nervous, and started to climb out of bed. “I should go help –”

“Sit. You’re not going anywhere,” Casey said. When the asset tried to move anyway, Casey lifted his calf and trapped Chuck’s lower leg underneath his before the nerd could stumble off the side of the bed. “Wasn’t a suggestion.” Next, he put his hand on the kid’s bony knee and increased the pressure until it stopped jiggling. “You and me? We gotta make this thing work. Up until now, this has been playtime, but this is where the real cover operation starts.”

“Wait. In bed?” Chuck somehow understood the futility of squirming. He settled on blinking stupidly at him. “Wh-when?” came out of his mouth.

Casey rolled his eyes. The better question was how, but the agent was thankful the kid’s brain had suffered a lapse. Truthfully, he was still trying to assess the viable go-forward strategies.

“Starting tonight,” Casey answered. “And every damn night after this until we get it right. Think you can handle that?”

-x-End Part One Chuck vs. The Rise of the Sandworm-x-


	2. Part Two

Chuck vs. the Rise of the Sandworm (Part Two of Two)

-x-

“If ... I can handle it?” Chuck repeated slowly. He felt his brows fly up at the fact he was even having this conversation with Mr. Shoot First / Questions Not Welcome. “By that you mean, working on our ‘barely on life support’ cover?”

“You heard me,” Casey said. “Don’t look so surprised.”

Chuck took a minute to debate the idea. After what he figured was an appropriate length of time to be completely boggled, he scooted up on his pillow, tired of having to crane his neck in order to eye the grunting, stone-like, scarier half of his fake relationship, and gaped at him.

His leg wasn’t going anywhere, however, since the moment he started to move, Casey pinioned it tighter. “First, ow,” the kid said, jiggling his trapped calf. “Second, I should be the one asking you that question.”

“Me?” Casey sounded disgusted at the insinuation. “I’m the professional here, Bartowski.”

“Oh, I’m not arguing that. I’m just pointing out that ... well ....” The kid trailed off weakly and let his eyes roam for a second or two over the man sprawled out next to him on his bed. “Let’s put it this way: you’re not exactly boyfriend material.” He paused. “Let alone, gay boyfriend material.”

“Really,” Casey said. “Seems like a stereotypical thing to say ... especially coming from you ....”

“Hold on, boyfriend.” Chuck hastily lifted a hand. “I only meant by the fact you’re not gay. Ergo, my position stands.”

“I can do what needs to be done.”

“You ... can?”

“To sell the cover, Intersect.” Casey rolled his eyes. “What the hell did you think I meant?”

“Um.” Chuck forced himself to ignore the nerves in his stomach, multiplied by ten when he brushed his shoulder against his handler’s rock-hard bicep. It was a bit trickier to tune out the scent of Casey’s shampoo, with its hint of fresh apples teasing him. “Okay, what makes someone boyfriend material, you ask? Well, for starters, our first meeting was a little odd, don’t you think?”

“That was before I knew you were the Intersect,” Casey pointed out. “And before I knew I’d be checking your oil on a periodic basis.”

“What? I don’t have a car –”

Casey made a motion with a few of his fingers, looping one and driving his forefinger through the middle.

“Oh, my God.” Chuck buried his head in his hand.

“What’s the problem, Bartowski?” Casey asked.

Surely, Casey wasn’t mystified by his reaction, was he? But one furtive glance over confirmed his handler thought this conversation was normal. In fact, the agent looked pissed at Chuck’s mortified expression. “Let’s move past that initial meeting, then,” Chuck went on. “Most relationships don’t jump to someone informing the innocent bystander he’s getting on a plane to Washington – to be stashed in a bunker for the next sixty years or so, give or take a decade?”

“Shows I care, didn’t it? Saving you from the whack-job scientist?” Casey made a skeptical noise in his throat. “Most boyfriends would’ve let you just go down in that helicopter.”

“How about this,” Chuck argued. “You threaten to put a fist down my throat and a boot up my ass on a daily basis.”

“Pissed it’s not another appendage, Bartowski?”

“Hah.” Chuck gave a fake laugh to cover for his blush. He really hated his brain for painting that picture. “You wouldn’t even tell me your middle name!”

“Classified.”

“Do you see how any of this may be problematic, Casey? Maybe out of the realm of being a boyfriend?”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“It’s a small thing.”

“Fine.” Casey threw up his hand. “It’s Luke.”

“It is?” Chuck sat up taller, instantly intrigued by any kind of Intel. “As in Skywalker? Wow ... see, now how hard was that? Wait. Is that a lie?”

“No.”

Chuck raised an eyebrow.

“Shut up.” Casey’s jaw tightened briefly. “Yeah, it’s a lie.”

“You really do say the sweetest things,” Chuck deadpanned. When he settled in again, his shoulder accidently ended up on Casey’s upper arm, and he made the life or death decision to leave it there. “And you still say this cover thing is going to work?”

“Letting you touch me, aren’t I?”

So he noticed. Chuck couldn’t deny that his skin was prickling a little along his neck. “About that ....”

“God, now what? I am trying here, aren’t I?”

“Well, yes, you are, but we have to work on your handling technique.” Chuck’s eyes cut down to where his calf was still trapped under a much more muscular one. “Most boyfriends don’t keep their partners compliant by holding body parts hostage. Just sayin’.”

“I needed to get your attention.”

Chuck swiveled around to gauge cluelessness on this subject. Holy Batman. Casey really wasn’t faking it. He had no idea that dating did not involve immobilizing his prey. “Here’s a thought. How about doing that in a less bullying or terrifying way?”

Casey lifted a shoulder. That move confirmed a hunch. Morgan was so right about the shirt. Not puffy, all John Casey. Heck, Chuck would bet he could pop a frickin’ quarter off one of those pecs –

“There,” the agent said as he freed his calf. “All better, boyfriend?”

“Er, thank you.” Chuck glared before flexing his limb and stretching it out along Casey’s. His legs were nearly as long as the agent’s, a fact that probably irked Casey a bit, but it did help that their bodies lined up fairly well.

Help what? As if they’d be taking advantage of height similarities? Oh, God.

“It’s ... a start, I guess,” the kid managed.

“A start?”

Chuck had to laugh. “Weren’t you the one who just said you were going to work harder at being a top- notch boyfriend?”

“Implying something, Intersect?”

“No, I’m pretty much coming out and saying it, Agent Casey. There’s one more thing a real – well, a cover boyfriend would do tonight.”

“If you’re suggesting I batter dip the corn dog –”

“– take one end of the sandworm – wh-what?”

“Take an end, huh?” Casey gave him a bland look when Chuck bolted straight up. “Where is it, anyway?”

“Where’s ... what?” Chuck was still stuck on deciphering how Casey would’ve concluded that sentence.

“The costume?”

Chuck blinked. “Um, in the closet.”

Casey got out of bed and walked over to the door, stuck his head inside. “You really should organize this,” he said. “How was that for a ‘boyfriend’ comment?”

“Hm?” Chuck was certain Casey said something else, but he did what he usually did when the giant of a man, all muscles and bad attitude, turned his back on him. He scoped him out from behind, broad shoulders, to rounded ass, to legs. And back to his ass, because, well, just ... because. “Yeah ... I should.”

Casey spun around and gave him a questioning look. “Where, Bartowski?”

“Oh. It’s, ah ....” Chuck attempted a weak smile, though he had been a millisecond too late to drag his eyes upward. Damnit. Maybe Casey didn’t notice. “In the cardboard box next to the shoes.”

“I can turn around again, if you like,” Casey said, barely repressing a smile.

Crap. “Don’t be so full of yourself, Major,” Chuck muttered as he got up to help him. “Here. I’ll get it.”

Casey, now outwardly smirking, stepped out of the way to let Chuck past him. Finding the box, the kid carried it over to the bed with a smarty-pants spy keeping his distance.

“It doesn’t bite, you know,” Chuck said. The large, faded box, after twelve years of use, had a few dents and one slightly crushed corner, but it didn’t stop the kid from lifting the lid with reverence reserved for wielding Excalibur. “Casey, let me introduce you to the giant worm deity, The Great Maker.”

Casey approached warily and seemed to assess the danger posed by the bunched up fabric. “Still say it looks like a space penis.”

Chuck’s shoulders deflated. “And you are the king of fun suckers.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Only because Sarah ordered you to be here. ‘Fix the cover’?” Chuck repeated, and almost flinched when Casey turned his squint his way. The kid shuffled back a step. “What? Am I right?”

“I may be here because we have work to do to fix this thing between us,” Casey replied, stepping in closer, “but this whole two-man sea cucumber thing ... no one forced me to do that.”

“Oh. I see.” Chuck cast one last regretful look into the box, the flesh-colored, dark-ringed worm almost calling out forlornly, and began to slip the lid back on.

A big hand caught his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“So the talk about taking body parts hostage missed its mark a bit?” Chuck gave him a sour look before turning his eyes to his captured wrist.

“So?”

“Okay, then,” Chuck sighed, “I’m putting the lid back on because you just said –”

“I said no one was making me do it.” Casey made a grumbling noise under his breath but his fingers held tight. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

Chuck’s jaw fell open. “You will?”

“I said I would.”

“All right,” Chuck said, blinking in shock. After deciding this wasn’t a joke, he couldn’t hold back the smile, the one that could light up solar systems. “But first, anointed one, we have to practice.”

“Practice? What is there to practice?” Casey glimpsed at the formless costume, let go of his wrist. “Should be pretty simple. Head or ass. I’ll give you either.”

Chuck gave him the head tilt. “We are talking about the sandworm, right?”

“As opposed to what, Bartowski?”

“Um, excellent point,” Chuck said quickly. He brought up his watch to check the time. “We still have twenty minutes of Arcade Fire left, and since we’re not actually ... well, Ellie only thinks I might be ....”

“– eating my take-out from the Wienerlicious –”

“– we still have time to practice –” Chuck’s eyes widened. “God, tell me you didn’t just say that.”

Casey’s replying grunt held no remorse. “Never been told I need practice at that either.”

Chuck remembered to close his mouth and got busy pulling out the extension poles. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? Being the sandworm isn’t something you can do justice to without a few pointers.”

“So it takes skill to put the penis suit on and act like a dickhead?”

Chuck folded his arms over his long sleeved t-shirt. “If I say you manage that quite well without the costume, I’m not helping the cover, am I?”

It surprised him to hear Casey chuckle, deep and warm, like reaching the bottom of a whiskey glass. “Only if you say it in front of your sister,” the agent said. He picked up a handful of worm cloth and inspected it like it possibly could pass along an STD. “If it takes more training than to fly a stealth fighter, I might have to tap out.”

“If you can hold your pole in the air, you’ll be fine.”

Casey lifted a brow.

Chuck flushed. “Ah. See? These are retractable.” He demonstrated by pulling one of metal poles out to its full length and tightening the clamp. “It holds the end of the pe – sandworm up the air.”

“That’s what I hang onto?”

Unfortunately, Chuck thought before he could stop himself. Right when he thought there was no way the gods would be crueler, he was going to be shoved under the cover with his hot-as-hell, no bullshit, straight handler. “We still haven’t debated the merits of the most significant decision.”

“Beer after this, or straight to the hard liquor since we don’t have to drive?”

“Ah, no,” Chuck said, cringing as he handed Casey one of the poles. “Do you want the head or the ... rear duty?”

“If I give you head, I won’t be able to see.”

“I ....” Chuck eyes widened further. “Okay, then. If you insist, you can have the frontal position.”

“If you keep tightening that, it’s going to break,” Casey said, nodding down at Chuck’s hands.

“Oh. Oh, crap.” The clamp was making an awful sound he should’ve noticed a few seconds ago. “You know, since you’re new at this, I think you’re going to need to take up the rear.”

Casey narrowed his eyes, studying him.

Chuck immediately froze. Except his mouth, that went into overdrive. “Um, what I meant by that,” he began, speeding up, “is that you, being a novice at the whole sandworm experience, should take it from behind until you get used to – oh, God. Really, you can have either, I don’t care. Just pick one.”

When Chuck dared to look over, he saw Casey biting down on the inside of his mouth. “Maybe you should take it from behind this year,” he said, readjusting one of the clamps.

Chuck gave him a sullen look. “I’ll take the front, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Casey told him, and now that the two poles were fully extended, he pulled out one end of the costume and held it up. “Tell me I don’t have to climb up the ass of this thing.”

“It’s – ah – quite simple, actually,” Chuck explained, pained that he was stuttering. “You just, um, get in position there – hold the pole – here, like this –”

“Watch it,” Casey growled. “You’re going to get it in my eye.”

“And you just start, well, moving ....”

“Where?”

Chuck’s thoughts took a detour. “Uh, behind me?”

Casey, still trying to figure out which end was which, looked over at him. “I mean, Bartowski, where’s the march of the penis parade begin and end?”

“Oh, right,” Chuck said, blushing too hard to help Casey find the rear. “We’ll circle the courtyard a few times. Then the DJ plays Hungry Like the Wolf .... annnnnd we start a conga line –”

“Tell me you’re only joking.”

“– and the whole thing takes only about twenty minutes. After that, we can go bask in the afterglow.”

“God, I’m gonna need a good smoke after this,” Casey said, holding up the elusive end of the costume.

“Too late to back out now, boyfriend.”

“How do you know I’m even gonna fit back here?” Casey’s frown deepened. “This’ll be too damn tight, taking the rear end, I can tell already.”

Chuck looked over at his fake boyfriend, head to toe. “First, you might want to keep your voice down,” he warned him in a whisper, “and it’s – ah – conveniently a one-size fits all design.”

“Yippee. Are we done with the little lesson here?”

“Well, unless you’re re-thinking giving me the – oh.” Saved by a text message, Chuck thought when he felt his phone vibrating. Sliding it out of his pocket, he read the screen and shook his head. “Oh, that’s Ellie. Ah, look, a smiling emoticon. She obviously has no clue what I’m doing in here with my new boyfriend.”

“Well, the blinds are closed, the door shut, and she hears rustling while you give me instructions.” Casey lifted his end and said off-hand, “Obviously, she just learned her innocent little brother can be a demanding prick between the sheets.”

“I’m not overly demanding,” Chuck mumbled in his defense. “I just ... know what I like and get excited, okay?”

Casey snorted, looking less than impressed. “How would you even remember that?”

Chuck glared. His five-year drought had little hope of coming to an end as long as John Casey was his fake boyfriend. Thanks, US government, for waving steak in front of a starving man. “Geez, can we stop talking about this?”

“Speaking of babble, I have a few rules, too.”

“Is this going to be helpful or sarcastic?”

“I’ve heard enough girly noises for tonight, Bartowski,” Casey told him, testing one of the poles by stuffing the end in a fabric slot. “None of those yelps you like to make if you happen to stop and I ram you from behind. Just keep moving. You’ll be fine.”

It took everything in Chuck’s willpower not to look in the vicinity of the area that would do the ramming.

Scratch that. As soon as Casey tested the costume by settling it over his head, the kid swung his focus down and took a good gander at his chest –maybe hips, or you know, in that general jurisdiction – while his brain gave him a picture or two to force the oxygen from the room. “Oh, hell,” he murmured. “Haven’t I been tortured enough?”

“You say something?” Casey asked, sticking his head out to the side.

“Um, shrimp puffs,” Chuck said.

“What about them?”

“I – uh,” and Chuck paused to unscramble his thoughts, “it might be a good idea to turn when you see Ellie’s hors d’ oeurvres table. Morgan cried for a week over the shrimp puff debacle of ‘07.”

“As long as she doesn’t have any of those fried wieners. I’ve eaten so damn many of those things in the past month, I can taste wiener in my sleep.”

When Casey fitted the costume over his head again, Chuck slapped a hand over his forehead and thought of the tight shirt and jeans bumping into him from behind (patience of Job, patience of Job) and he carefully reached for his own pole. “Ready?”

“Move it,” Casey ordered, using his hips to steer him forward. “Wheels up. Flaps down.”

Oh, crap.

A cold shower would be in order after this. Very cold.

-x-

“Brought you something.” Chuck stood directly in front of Casey, forcing him to shift his attention upward, and plastered on a smile. “I guess you could call them a few thank-you presents.”

Casey had found a seat in one of the Adirondack chairs in a quiet corner of the courtyard, away from the menagerie of black cats and zombies. Now that the conga line had dispersed and the worm was laid to rest for another year, the agent stretched his feet out toward the raised fire pit, looking more content than Chuck could recall, and he sighed. “Please tell me one of them is a muzzle. And that you’ll hold still like a good boy for me to strap it on you.”

“I thought we were trying to work harder at the cover?” Chuck asked, dropping his voice so that Ellie or anyone else wouldn’t overhear. “Doesn’t that mean being nice to me?”

“That was nice,” Casey said, letting his gaze move up the kid’s long legs to eye him for a moment. “Call it the way I like to flirt, if you must.”

Chuck’s smile gained a little more authenticity when something occurred to him. “So you’re flirting with me – when no one can hear us?”

Casey was quiet at first. His expression had once again gone impassive, but he seemed to be hiding his puzzlement or trying to come up with an excuse, something he did when he had stepped into a hole with the kid. Chuck waited him out.

Finally, he just sighed again. “Thought you said you have something for me.”

“Well, if you insist.” Chuck rummaged behind his back, doing a bit of a balancing act. His right hand emerged with a Frankenstein plate, loaded down with an assortment of appetizers. “I wasn’t sure what you would want, so I brought a few of everything. Asian meatballs, soft pretzel bites, chicken wontons, stuffed mushrooms ... oh, not everything.” The kid wrinkled his nose. “I figured you would take a pass on the bacon-wrapped cocktail weenies. Being of the wiener family and all.”

“Bacon, huh?”

“I can go back if you like.”

Casey regarded the offering. “This is good.”

“I’ll just set it here, then,” Chuck said, carefully sliding it onto the wide arm of the chair.

Casey nodded his thanks and picked up a pretzel bite.

“And I know you really didn’t want to don the sandworm tonight, so this is just another way to say thank you. Again. I’m – kinda of sorry that you – Mr. Superspy and all – ended up in this situation.” Chuck, wanting him to know he meant the bigger dilemma, motioned with his head towards the party. “Dressing up ... having a fake boyfriend ... stuck with ... me ... instead of, well, out saving the world.”

Maybe he was spending too much time around trained operatives, but when Casey’s face remained unreadable, Chuck felt his black Chuck’s slide back step or two. What was that all about?

“But since you’re here tonight,” Chuck continued, “Thanks. For all the lifesaving. I mean, today, last week, well, I lose track. Maybe I should make a list. Anyway, thanks for – for not letting me get killed today.” He braced himself. “This is usually where you break in with the sarcasm thing and then, uh, threaten to lock me in a box if I try to diffuse another bomb. So. I guess you’re kind of a captive audience tonight, being that you have to fake ... er, liking me.”

Casey stayed quiet for a minute. “What’s in your other hand?” he finally asked.

The kid realized that he was still standing with the other hand behind his back. “Oh, here.” He held out the ice-cold beer to him. “No hard stuff in the metal tub, so I had to settle for this, but I figured you’d like this brand since it’s American. Craft beer. The good stuff. At least that’s what Awesome says, so it has to be awesome, right?” When Casey didn’t move, Chuck waggled it, noticed it was dripping rivulets of ice, and used the hem of his t-shirt to dry it off. “And, ah, are you going to take it? It really is my way of saying thanks for standing in tonight for Morgan – and for everything I put you through?”

Apparently, the night either wrecked him or didn’t even faze him because he only looked up for a split second, those blue eyes catching a glint in the firelight, before scanning over to where most of the people had gathered. “Just sit down, Chuck,” Casey said, taking the beer from him. Chuck watched him as he screwed off the top, took a long pull, and with his feet resting on the edge of the fire pit, got more comfortable by crossing his ankles. “Not bad.”

“I’ll be right back.” Chuck needed no more invitation than that, so he ambled over to the enormous metal basin holding beer on ice and scooped out one for himself. He returned, plopping down in the chair next to Casey, and held out his bottle. “Cheers.”

“Bottom’s up,” Casey agreed, clinking it before he slanted a look over at him. Chuck was using his sleeve to wipe the dribbles from his chin. “What’re you doing now, Bartowski? Spilling everywhere?”

“Oh, s-sorry. It’s just ....” His voice trailed and he covered the awkwardness by taking a huge gulp. “Hm. Not bad at all. Bottoms up. To our first successful job under the covers – cover, I meant.”

“Well, next year, I get the head job,” Casey said, and taking one of the mushrooms, he popped it in his mouth.

The shrimp puff Chuck had swiped almost made another appearance when he suddenly had a coughing fit.

“When you came to a dead stop at the DJ’s table,” Casey continued without noticing, “I almost gave it to you up the ass.”

Okay, he was officially not helping with the coughing fit.

“Easy, Intersect, there’s plenty of food.”

“Good, because getting rammed from behind works up an appetite,” Chuck griped, taking another long swig from the beer. He wasn’t sure which made him more fidgety. The fact that Casey seemed to be flirting, or that he would need another very cold shower in about two hours from now.

“Don’t know what you’re bellyaching about. Only happened once.”

“Twice.”

“The second time you seemed to be asking for it,” Casey said.

“How?”

“You backed into me.”

“It – it was an accident. I didn’t see the edge of the fountain, okay?”

“Yeah, they must’ve moved it.” Casey chuckled and tried one of the wontons. After a companionable silence, he brushed the crumbs from his jeans and settled back again. “Damn. Ellie Bartowski may be a pain in the ass, but she knows her tidbits.”

Chuck regarded him in a different light now, slightly offended. “My sister is a what?”

“Speaking of your sister, what did she have to say?” Casey shook his head at Chuck’s confused look. “She cornered you over there for a little while. After the march of the penis? What did she want? Looked ... interesting.”

“Um, it was nothing.” Chuck blanched and grabbed one of the pretzels.

“Want to tell me anyway, Intersect?”

“Ah, no.” Chuck waved him off. “That’s ... fine.”

Casey rolled his eyes. “You know I’ll just pull it up on the surveillance later.”

“You have surveillance out here? In the courtyard?”

Another eye roll answered that question.

Chuck huffed and wiped his fingers on a napkin. “This is ... kind of embarrassing.”

“Spit it out,” Casey said.

“Well, not that she came out and asked it,” Chuck began, trying not to squirm in his seat, “she would never do that – but I could tell she was ... wondering why ... we’ve only, ah, hooked up one time, and that was in my bedroom, when you have a nice apartment right across the courtyard.”

Casey set down his beer and scrubbed a hand over his face. “So, let me get this straight. Your overprotective, big sister thinks we don’t have a healthy relationship – unless I’m banging you into next week? And I have to drag your ass over there because it has to be in my apartment?”

“You have a real way with words, you know that?” Something occurred to Chuck. “And she’s not overprotective. Either.” He was still stuck on the ‘pain in the ass’ thing.

“Mm.”

“Well, okay, maybe a little,” Chuck said, “but you have to admit she has reasons to be cautious.”

“And what would those be?”

“Really?” Chuck’s eyes quickly traversed over the scariest man he had ever met. “You don’t know?”

“What are you saying? She doesn’t think I can charm the pants off of you?”

“Think about it, Casey. She only knows you as the big grunting guy who goes for runs at an ungodly hour, carpools with me ... and is the reason I stay out late sometimes now or disappear at the worst possible time. And now you’re ‘cover’ boffing me in an apartment I share with her.”

“Boffing. Are we in high school again? So now we’re not serious unless I teach you to use that mouth for something besides babble –”

“– wait a damn minute –”

“– or see if those long legs can get tied off in back behind my lederhosen?”

Oh. That was the wrong time to take a drink of beer. Liquid spewed. A sexy witch turned to flick a curious look at him.

“Here.” Without turning his head, Casey spanked a napkin against his chest. “God, your family is bat-shit crazy.”

“Why? Because she worries?” Chuck mopped up his mouth, then took his life in his own hands by leaning into him. “I mean, look at us. Two healthy guys, working together, almost living on top of each other– figuratively. Of course she’s going to ... wonder.”

Casey grunted and took a swig.

“We’ll just tell her we’re taking it slow,” Chuck offered up, knowing it was as lame as it sounded.

“We already played hide the sausage in your bedroom, kid. I think we’re way past that.”

“You have any other ideas?”

Chuck waited for Casey to answer. The agent seemed to be rolling something around in his head. And after a moment, he put his elbow on the armrest, brushing the kid’s arm.

When he shifted to hand-holding, Chuck gave him an alarmed look. “You – you do realize that’s my ha-hand?”

“Yep.”

Chuck’s brows flew up under his wayward curls. Part of him enjoyed the touch of bare skin and a comforting, protective big hand.

But part of him wondered if Casey would tear it off and toss it in the fire next.

“I – then what are you doing?”

“Spy training.”

“Spy training?” Chuck sputtered. Oh, God. He really was going to lose that hand, and he needed it for pushing buttons A and B.

“Yeah, it’s called putting an airtight lid on the cover.”

“I – I don’t think I’m ready for this –”

“You’re staying at my place tonight,” Casey ordered. “End of discussion. We’re going to start having little sleepovers. You and me.”

“Sleepovers? Are you insane?” When a mummy turned to look at them, Chuck waved, smiled, and turned to Casey with a bewildered look. “I can’t just walk over to my room – in front of everybody – and bring my stuff over to your apartment. Everyone’s going to know what’s going on.”

“Good.” Casey popped the last mushroom into his mouth, chewed slowly and turned to him. Satisfied by Chuck’s horrified expression, the agent then shot him a smirk. One of the lewd variety, Chuck decided. “That’s the point,” Casey said.

-x-

Chuck held his overnight bag and waited approximately ten seconds for the freak out to subside. It wasn’t nearly long enough. Sure he had been shuttled in and out of Casey’s apartment from time to time, but never like this.

The agent’s lair was where things went to die, wasn’t it? Weapons of all shapes and sizes, standing in neat rows like soldiers at attention, lined his gun cases. Furniture was sparse – a comfortable-looking couch, a puffy recliner, and a coffee table was about it. At least he had some elements of a typical bachelor pad, Chuck figured, thankful Sarah had convinced Casey to buy a sizable HD TV from her during the sales competition.

What drew Chuck’s attention, much like it always did when the bona fide nerd entered the natural habitat of John Casey, was the bank of computers and monitors on a long desk where a dining table should be. Often, the scowling faces of the spies’ bosses filled the screens, usually yacking about how screwed up this was, and ordering his handlers to ‘take the Intersect along’ as if he was a piece of baggage and not a real person. Chuck wanted to tell them he wasn’t just a meat locker for their precious Intersect, but both Sarah and Casey had warned him that when the higher-ups gave him that look, they were measuring bunker garb in extra tall and skinny.

But now that the screen displayed the NSA emblem, the kid couldn’t help but want to take a seat at the desk and just play around a little. See if their security really was everything they thought it was cracked up to be.

“Don’t even try it, Bartowski,” Casey said, proving he was a mind reader as he lifted his shirt partway and unsnapped his concealed hip holster. “Will I need to hide all the electronics when you come over?”

“Not all,” Chuck clarified, frowning, “though I wouldn’t mind seeing how the surveillance equipment actually –”

“Hands off.”

Chuck, halfway to touching a switch on one of the small monitors, pulled his hand back. “Geez, what can I touch when I’m here?”

Casey just smirked and got down to remove an ankle holster next. “Gonna stand there all night?”

“Do I have other choices?”

“For starters, put your bag over there by the couch.”

That he could handle. “Have I told you I like what the government has done with the place? Gives it that real post-apocalyptic impression.” Chuck set down his overnight duffle and remained standing, giving the place a good once over since it appeared he may now be spending more time here. “Ever think about hiding the guns?”

“Why?” Casey moved over to one of the control panels at a monitor and flicked a few switches. “Don’t think they give the place a homey touch?”

“Only if one grew up in an armory.”

Casey shrugged. Hitting another switch, the glass fronts of the gun cabinets transformed from clear to opaque. “There. If your sister ever comes over for dinner, she won’t have gawp at my AK-47s.”

“I’m pretty sure the rocket launchers disguised as candle holders will be enough for her to take in,” Chuck told him. “That was pretty cool, though. How did you do that –”

“Do I have to cuff you to the end of the couch while you’re here?” Casey asked, strolling in a step or two. “I said don’t touch anything.”

Casey was just evil enough to do it, too, so Chuck yanked his hand away from an unmarked switch. He turned to tell Casey it wasn’t a way to treat a boyfriend, even the nerdy one he had been saddled with – but his phone vibrated in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts.

“Oh, look, Ellie,” he said, checking out his iPhone. “Huh. She says she didn’t want to barge in on us –”

“– thinks I’ve got you pinned down on sofa by now, eh? I must be a hell of a Romeo to be stuffin’ the muffin twice in two hours –”

“– but she left a surprise for us at the door – what did you just say?”

“A surprise, eh?” Casey affected an innocent look as he pulled his SIG out of the back of his pants. “What kind of surprise?”

“I – um ... what now?”

“Your sister?”

“Oh.” Chuck remembered he was holding his phone, cleared his throat. “She didn’t say, but she said not to leave it overnight or the Hadisian’s cat might find it.” When he walked over to the door, Casey beat him by half a step and shouldered him out of the way.

“Hang on, Intersect.”

“What – what did I do now?”

“Alarm system,” Casey said. Punching a few buttons, he disabled it and opened the door. “Word of advice. If you ever set it off by accident, get low. Fast.”

“And you still think Ellie worries too much?” Chuck asked. He stepped out of the doorway and looked down at his feet. Ellie’s surprise was about the size of a shoebox, plain white cardboard with an orange and black ribbon wrapped around it. “Hm. Looks nice.”

“Careful,” Casey warned, absolutely straight-faced. “If your sister thinks I’m krauting the sausage with her baby brother, it might go off.”

Chuck scowled. “How many euphemisms do you have for, you know ... doing it?”

“About the same number of guns, Bartowski.”

Maybe he shouldn’t, but Chuck couldn’t help glance over at the armory. That was a hell of a lot of guns. “Can you be serious? I wonder what’s in here.”

“Well, Intersect,” Casey began, eyeing the box as he closed the door behind him, “if I’m gonna be giving you the tubular wedgie for the foreseeable future, she probably sprung for a two-day supply of condoms.”

The nonchalance made Chuck blink. “You can be a real asshole, you know that?”

Casey merely gave him the ‘damn right’ look.

Giving up, Chuck swung around and brought the box over to the kitchen counter. He had the container halfway open before a thought hit him. “You ... that’s flirting. You’re flirting with me!”

“Hell, no, I’m not.”

“I beg to differ, John,” Chuck said, straightening a little, “but a while ago you admitted that when you say things that –”

“What the hell is in the box?”

The force of Casey’s glare backed him up – along with the knowledge that the scariest man he knew had just toyed with him again. Chuck felt the flush rise, but he recovered by focusing on the container. “Let’s find out, shall we?” Just as he began to lift the lid, he felt Casey lean in close enough to rub up against his jeans and t-shirt. The kid had to fight every fiber of his being not to deploy The Morgan. “Whoa ... gah. What are you doing?”

“Spying. The box?”

“But you – um,” Chuck stammered, shuffling to the side. “You were also –”

“Touching you?”

“Yes, that.”

Irritation made Casey screw up his face at him. “You do realize, Bartowski, that if we’re going to be cover boyfriends, there might be some cover touching from time to time.”

“Well, yes, I suppose, conceptually, without loss of life, it could –”

“And when it happens, we can’t have your sister seeing you flail like a damn turtle on its back.” Casey slammed the lid down before Chuck could peer inside. “Wanna try again?”

“You mean ... opening the box?”

“I mean trying to breathe when I have my hand on you, idiot. School is in session.”

“I – I didn’t mean to jump.” Chuck backed up and lifted his hands, realizing too late he was posed for surrender. “It’s only reflexes. Honest.”

Chuck’s hands in the air gave Casey easy access to his lower ribcage. Instantly, he took advantage of the submissive stance by curling a hand around the kid’s middle. “Don’t. Move,” Casey ordered.

“Please don’t let me die,” Chuck said, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Casey left his hand right there, fingers splayed over his shirt, daring him to move. “This feel like I’m stabbing you?”

“Stabbing ..?” Chuck tried to melt back into the countertop, but no dice. Casey settled directly in front of him, intimidatingly and as good as a wall. “Do we really have to talk about violence now?”

“Wanna tell me why you’re acting like a moron?”

“I – okay, here’s why: the only time I’ve seen you touch another human since I met you was to stuff a limb inside a body bag so it wouldn’t get caught in the zipper!”

Casey opened his mouth to argue, thought about it, and shrugged. “So you got a problem with me being a neatnik?”

“And you wonder why this is freaking me out,” Chuck said.

“Get used to it.” Casey brought his hand down along the kid’s side, rumpling the shirt before rubbing shockingly gently against his waist. “Don’t ....”

“I’m not,” Chuck said. He closed his eyes and took a deep relaxing breath, wondering if it would be easier if he imagined another man’s hand there, but with his handler’s warm body nearly pinned to his, no other face came to mind. When the kid finally did open his eyes, the last thing he expected was for a slow smile to overtake Casey’s face, even if the amusement was at his expense. “Um, should we open the box now?”

Casey’s hand slid down over Chuck’s hip, slow and easy, before he took it back. “You need practice,” he mumbled.

“Gee, thanks.” To spare his libido any more teasing, Chuck turned to the box on the counter and lifted the lid. He peeked inside and instantly smiled. “Oh, hey. Halloween cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes? Let me see that, Bartowski.”

“Oh-ho-ho,” Chuck said, laughing. “Who knew the great John Casey had a weakness for sweet confectionary goods?” He made a show of lifting one out of the box, topped with a swirl of thick whipped cream shaped like a ghost, perched on yet more frosting. A green glob landed on Chuck’s thumb, and the kid automatically licked it off before it could land on Casey’s carpet. When he looked up, Casey had his eyes narrowed at him. “What?”

“When you’re done licking yourself, I wouldn’t mind a try.”

Chuck sucked his tongue in and almost stumbled backwards. “Wow. If only the Russians knew it would be cupcakes from Magnolia’s that would bring down the agency’s top dog.”

“Careful, Intersect. The Cold War isn’t over yet.” Casey glanced down to check out the other contents of the bakery box. “What else do you have there?”

“Well, it looks like a ghost, a black cat, and ... what would you call this one with the eyeballs?”

“Something that would fit in my mouth,” Casey said. “Let’s try that one.”

Chuck wet his lips before he could stop himself and started to hand it over.

“Not the whole thing. I’d have to run ten miles tomorrow morning.”

“Somehow that is more frightening than seeing a real ghost,” Chuck observed. “I’ll break it in half.”

As carefully as he could, the kid pulled apart the green frosted cupcake with the wobbly eyes on top. Bad move. That was when he found out it was full of whipped cream. “Uh-oh. Here. You’re going to have to eat this.” Chuck instinctively scooped out the light cream with one finger before it could hit the counter. “Um,” he then said, not knowing quite what to do.

Well, thank the gods of sugar and flour, John Casey knew exactly what to do with that glob of filling. Belatedly, Chuck felt a hand wrap around his wrist, sure and strong, and his handler steered his finger directly to his own mouth. With no hesitation, Casey slipped the kid’s fingertip between his lips, up to the second knuckle, and got to work sucking off the cream.

“I – ah, okay. That w-works,” Chuck said, and his eyes nearly crossed as they fastened to the place where his finger disappeared. “I should’ve thought ... of that.”

It was wet and warm and maybe he should’ve been more worried about losing his forefinger, but Casey seemed intent to hold him there until he had every bit of it cleaned up.

Damn, Casey could lick ....

Not now, not now –

“Am I going to get that back?”

Apparently, not yet. Casey wrapped his tongue around his finger, giving him one last thorough slide along it.

And to his horror, Chuck felt an unwelcome – very unwelcome – part of his body reacting to the wet, warm suction.

“Oh, God.”

Casey pulled back abruptly. “... the hell? Are you having a flash? Now?”

“What – what the hell was that?” Chuck yelped, taking back his molested finger.

“Good frosting, Bartowski.” Casey shrugged his shoulders and, reaching down to the cupcake Chuck had all but forgotten, scooped out a wad and put it in front of the kid’s lips. “Open up. Try it.”

“I – don’t think that’s such a – oh.” With zero warning, the frosting-covered finger was shoved between his lips.

“Found one way to shut you up. Shoulda jammed something in your mouth long ago.”

“Mm?!”

“Stop talking. Suck it.”

Chuck closed his eyes, praying the front of his t-shirt was long enough.

“Like it, huh.” Casey swiped his finger back a bit further. “Jesus, we should hit this cupcake shop sometime. Taste it fresh.”

For one thrumming, heart-stopping second, Chuck had a brief yet intense fantasy.

About his handler.

On his knees, Chuck standing over him while he watches Casey open the kid’s pants ... holding his head so that he could thrust in hard.

Two bare hands that would break him in half and leave the pieces in separate landfills miles apart if Casey even had an inkling of what he was licking in said fantasy –

Chuck jolted, desperate to rid his head of what Casey had shoved there. “Mmph – gah, I can’t do this.”

“Can’t what?” Casey asked, scooping out a big dollop for himself. Bringing his finger to his own mouth, he took care of that wad of cream next. “You’re too skinny to be on a diet.”

Chuck darted his eyes down to where Casey had a small fleck of frosting on his lips, debated if it was worth dying to taste it – no, bad idea, very, very bad – and he tried to jump away. The couch. That would be a safe distance, right?

Except in a heartbeat, he hit his foot on the coffee table, lunged forward, and went smashing into the sofa. Because Casey’s stack of Modern Sniper and American Shooter magazines were sitting on the coffee table, they flew right along with him. Chuck ended up with a face full of couch cushion and a pile of magazines raining to the floor.

“That better not be this month’s issue. I haven’t even cracked it open it yet.”

“Oh. Ow. Sorry – I am so sorry about that.”

“You okay?”

Chuck held up a hand. His shoulder stung where a particularly thick issue of The Counter Terrorist had smacked into him. “I’m – fine,” he said, hiding his wince. “My fault. There are just downsides to cover dating the Godfather of Snipers. Really, I’m okay.”

“C’mon.” Casey crossed over to him, reached down and grabbed Chuck’s elbow. He hauled Chuck to his feet and shoved the other half under his nose. “Thought you’d be all over this, Bartowski. Gonna take another lick, or should I?”

“Oh, no,” Chuck said. “I – I need to use your shower. Like now, preferably.”

“Didn’t you just take one?”

“That was before we put on the costume. Sandworm sweat.” He flapped his shirt. “Really. How can you stand to be next to me?”

Casey sniffed. “Smell the same as you always do. Like nerd. Hey, where’re you going?”

Chuck scooped up his overnight bag and hustled to the stairs. “Can I use your shampoo?”

“Yeah, but don’t use all the hot water, Bartowski,” Casey called up after him.

Hot? “If there’s a God, he’s laughing at me now,” Chuck said under his breath.

“What are you babbling about?”

“Nothing! Be right back!”

“Might as well stay up there,” Casey barked up the stairs. “We’re hitting the sack.”

Chuck put his forehead on the bathroom door. Several times, hard.

Hilarious, God. Seriously hilarious.

-x-

“You got a preference?”

Chuck’s head snapped up. He had been staring at the empty bed. “What now?”

“Preference, Bartowski.” Casey turned off the bathroom light and wandered over to the bed. Chuck caught himself wondering if his handler normally slept in the nude, and was only wearing a pair of flannel sleep pants and faded, tight grey t-shirt out of politeness. Taking that thought any further would get him killed. “Which is it?”

“Do you mean – which ....?”

“Side of the bed, kid. What did you think I meant?”

Chuck enjoyed breathing too much to answer that question.

“I – ah – I don’t think I can – hang on. I’m sleeping in your bed?”

“Did you think I was going to make you sleep on the floor?”

“Or the couch, if you were feeling benevolent,” Chuck said, clinging to his overnight bag like a lifeline.

“Not happening.”

“Uh, hang on.” Chuck fumbled for the side zipper he was trying to close. “You ... want me to sleep with you?”

Casey snorted. “This will be the first night in five weeks where I don’t have to have one eye on your bedroom monitor. Watching your scrawny ass and wondering who’s going to kidnap you next.” He lifted a shoulder and pulled the blankets back. “Actually looking forward to getting some decent shut-eye.”

Chuck breathed out. “I ... I haven’t slept so well in the past five weeks myself.”

“I know,” Casey said. “Get in.”

-x-

“Here we go,” Casey murmured. He sighed and glanced at the clock.

3:14.

It was always about the same hour. Sometime between three and four am, it happened. Every fucking night since this assignment started.

First, without looking at the monitor, he’d hear the covers rustling through the surveillance audio, and he could picture the kid beginning to move around, almost struggling but not quite to the level of yelling. (Which was one lucky break for the Intersect, since Beckman had nearly no tolerance for what came out of his mouth when he was awake, let alone state secrets that could leak out when he slept.)

The first few times it occurred, Casey was out of bed and in assassin-mode within two milliseconds, wearing only his boxers but his gun locked and loaded at his side. There was a hitch in Chuck’s breath that had stopped him from barreling down the stairs that time, something that made him draw to a halt at his own bedroom door, tip his head and listen.

“No, no, no ... we have to find him. Isn’t this our fault?”

He recognized it then. Chuck was babbling in his sleep.

As the kid went on – it always took a while – Casey eventually got back in bed, lying awake until dawn. He heard more writhing that night, more details he never wanted to hear slipping from Chuck’s unconsciousness. The kid mumbled about the traitor, a B-movie mad doctor named Zarnow who had kidnapped Casey with intentions of torturing him in order to learn the identity of the Human Intersect. Another night it was something about stealing a diamond – please don’t shoot me, repeated over and over until Casey put a pillow over his head – and a few nights after that, Chuck blathered about a gun shoved to his temple as he asked Mei Ling not to pull the trigger.

Some nights, it was just the thrashing. That was easier to take. It was the chatter and begging that got to Casey the most. Luckily, it was always low, barely a whine to pick up on the audio, so the nosy big sister had no clue what her baby brother was going through. It had to stay that way.

The problem with tonight, right now, was that it gave Casey the opportunity to watch the kid get clobbered by his dreams, feel his lean body twisting next to him, and he couldn’t just block it out. The muscles that Casey didn’t even know Chuck had were drawn taut, he could actually feel them, like balls of wire being stretched and ready to snap. The blankets were rumpled and got caught on his feet while he kicked at invisible demons. The truly scary shit, Casey figured, not the candy-ass shit going on at the party tonight.

Then his voice, scratchy and scared like it always was.

Casey really despised this part.

“Oh ... God. No, this is it,” Chuck slurred. “I don’t ... know what you want.” When Casey got up on his elbows, he could see the kid’s lashes and eyelids fluttering as if he was watching the zombie apocalypse in IMAX. “I’m going to die ... please, I don’t know anything!”

Casey ran a hand over his face, debated. He should let him ride it out, like he always did. Hell, he knew how it ended.

After ten seconds, “Wake up.”

“Mm? Wh-what?” The kid’s eyes sprung wide. No perception where he was, just cold terror. “No!”

“Take it easy, kid.” Casey’s deep voice startled him out of his trance.

“Where – where am I?”

“My bed.” Casey nudged him to get him to turn. “Look at me.”

“I – what?”

Seeing the panic flicker across his face, Casey’s shoulder nudge was a little gentler this time. “Just another one of those dreams. Go back to sleep.”

Chuck blinked, swiveling his head to the side to peer over at him in the dark. The kid was covered in sweat, breathing hard, his chest rattling under the thin cotton t-shirt. “Oh ... oh. I’m s-sorry. It was ... nothing, I guess.”

“Nothing?” Casey rolled his eyes. “You were yipping like a dog left outside in the rain, Bartowski. Kicking me pretty good, too, with those knobby legs.”

Chuck brought up a hand to wipe his forehead, a useless attempt to get rid of the perspiration because it only made those whacky curls stand up in a few places. Casey could see his hand was shaking. Now he really felt like a turd for snapping at the kid.

“I said sorry, okay?” Chuck pressed two fingers to his eyelids and let out another breath, trying to steady himself. “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should go back home.” He started to climb out of bed, but Casey grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged him back down. “Or I can stay,” the kid added petulantly.

“Want to destroy the cover for good?” Casey asked, not releasing him until he felt Chuck relax. “Go dragging home in the middle of the night?”

“I guess not.” Chuck looked up at the ceiling and cleared his throat a little. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

Casey settled back on the bed and joined him in staring up into the murk. He left his arm where it was, touching the kid against his side. He had forgotten what it was like to have body heat to share. Still exhausted as hell, he decided to just leave it there and at least attempt to get back to sleep.

But with Chuck wide awake, his eyes bright with fear, making him look younger and more vulnerable than he already was, Casey couldn’t stop himself from slanting a look over at him. “You ... okay?”

Chuck stared at the other man, obviously gauging the probability for sarcasm. Not trusting, he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Liar,” Casey muttered, tipping his chin down to give him a look. “Don’t know what to tell you, then. Go back to sleep.”

They continued to lie there, silently, though neither pretended that they could doze off after that disruption. After a long stretch, Casey heard the kid wet his lips, and he moved his shoulder in a half-shrug. He finally spoke. “It was ... that time outside the cage. A few weeks ago?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Casey said.

“La Ciudad’s henchman?” the kid went on tentatively. “The guy was huge, Casey. You would look like a hobbit next to him. And the gun he pointed at my face. That ... black hole, it looks empty ... like it was hollow ... but you just know what’s coming –”

“Went down like a rock, didn’t he?” Casey cut in before the rambling went much further. “He’ll be cooling his heels in the Federal Pen for the next fifty years or so.”

“But what if ... it didn’t happen that way? What if,” and Chuck wavered slightly, swallowed, “he was able to get the shot off in time? Ellie ... Morgan, having to deal with that?”

Jesus. Of course, he’s thinking of the damn greeting of the FBI on Ellie’s door step that night. This kid really is too good to be breathing the same air in this room.

“He didn’t, though, did he?” the agent pointed out. “One microwave oven delivered to the side of the head took care of that.”

Of all things, a small smile crossed his face. “Big Mike wasn’t too pleased about that. He docked Sarah’s pay for destruction of merchandise. Did she tell you that?”

Casey chuckled. “That had to piss her off.”

Chuck managed a feeble grin and kept his eyes on Casey’s face a few seconds longer than simple friendship necessitated. “You were right.”

“What was I right about this time, Bartowski?”

“It ... helped,” he admitted, that expression of his becoming shy. “Talking to you about it.”

“I never said talk.”

“You called me a liar. You knew this would help.”

“Good,” Casey said. “Then go back to sleep.”

“You know what else would help?”

Casey turned his head to look over at him. “Does it involve getting shut-eye?”

Chuck bit his bottom lip, nervous about something, his eyes traveling over Casey’s face. “Yeah, I think so. This.” Before Casey could pull back, he felt warm, strong fingers slip between his own in the hand lying between them. “I ... hope this is okay with you.”

It took a minute to realize that the asset was holding his hand, resting over the top of the covers, fingers intertwined. “No one can see us right now, Bartowski,” Casey grumbled. “We don’t need to do this for the cover.”

Chuck’s dark eyes coursed over his mouth, like a blast of heat that came from a place Casey couldn’t think about. Then he looked down at their hands. “I know.” He leaned back and settled in with his other arm tucked around his midsection, shut his eyes. “’Night, John.”

Casey stared over at him long enough for his own eyeballs to hurt, long enough to hear Chuck’s breathing finally even out after a while. Everything about the kid had relaxed like a pile of weary bones, except his hand. That seemed to cling tightly to his.

The agent waited for sleep to come. His thoughts would always wander, and tonight they were shrill. He would be gone before the nightmares went away. As long as he was here, though, Casey was not going to let this kid change, not on his watch. If he had to hold his hand at night while he listened to him breathe or protect him from the boogie man, he would.

But he’d have to leave before it got too complicated between them, because Casey had to wonder if it could. It’d be so easy to reach over ... just hang on.

The last thing Casey remembered was a long-fingered, warm hand wrapped in his, until the alarm went off.

That never happened. He sure as hell didn’t need someone beside him like last night to tease and talk to, share secrets in order to sleep, to function. To have anything normal.

It was the truth, wasn’t it?

That’s when Casey let go and got up to put his pants on.

-x-End Chuck vs. The Rise of the Sandworm-x-


End file.
